The Courier Mail’s New Racing Writer ‘Gladhand’ Grant Stockwell Exclusively Reveals That He is a Journalistic Ethical Void – And That His Mummy Never Taught Him the Months and Seasons



The story about Eagle Farm being f*cked for the Winter Carnival is an exclusive it Courier Mail and Mr Grant Stockwell?

Pigs arse it is.


I broke the story exclusively here on this website on the 16th of October 2017, and I didn’t pick it up from a pair of fucking press releases sent out yesterday by Racing Queensland and the BRC; I did it through old fashioned hard work and investigative slog and uncovered and printed the story all on my Pat Malone and at a time when the Courier Mail were still falling over themselves backwards to back their heavy advertising client and echo their craven lies about getting racing back on track at Headquarters in time for May.

It was never going to happen but the odds of the BRC telling you that in a press release prior to my outing them were astronomical. You had do a bit of spade work and get your hands dirty researching the issue to get to the truth, but questioning, critically examining and investigating is the core of a journalists trade, that and fact checking of course.

Oh fact checking! Did you see Grant Stockwell’s f*ck up in yesterday’s paper when he reported Dynamic Darryl Hansen’s 9 month disqualification but somehow neglected to add that it had been overturned on appeal, despite the fact that he had spoken to Dynamic and interviewed him for the story.


It’s f*cking shoddy journalism all right, the sort of crap stuff that brings with it the ignominy of printing a groveling apology the next morning to the bloke who did the right thing by giving you his time and his thoughts, only to wake up the next morning to find that through design or sheer incompetence you’d f*cked him six ways to Sunday as your own very special way of saying thanks.

Stockwell has tried to f*ck me too by cravenly claiming one of my hard found stories as his own, but do you know what sportsfans?

The only person Gladhand Grant Stockwell is fucking is himself.

Everyone in racing reads this site , which means that everyone in racing knows that the no Winter Carnival at Eagle Farm story is mine and mine alone, and that Stockwell’s simply either pinched it or was just arrogant enough to believe that he coild ride into town on his Malvern Star Ladies Racer and start sh*tting on everyone who doesn’t choose to sell their soul and their arse to Rupert Murdoch because they have enough confidence in themselves and their ability to leave Mummy’s bosom and head out to have a good hard crack at keeping their artistic freedom and making it on their own.

Want a real exclusive punters?

I have two for you.

The first is that Grant Stockwell is about a million to one of being a racing writer at the Courier-Mail this time next year, and that he’ll blow to five millions if I don’t get a call this morning to discuss my personal and professional indignation at his form.

The second is that an exclusive story about the court throwing out a live baiting related case is about to break this morning, and that when it does a whole lot of live baiting prosecutions are all of a sudden going to look wobblier than a blue bottle washed up on sand at Brighton.

This is a real exclusive story sportsfans, one that I’ve worked for months to get and that no-one else has, a bit like the Eagle Farm’s f*cked exposure series of stories was when you think about it upon reflection.

Gladhand ‘Grant Stockwell.

Remember that name readers.

That c*nts cards are marked.

And that’s an exclusive.

Or was until I just told you it anyway.

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Nifty, Monty, Mary and ET – The Oarsome Foursome Who All Failed to Declare Their Clear Conflict of Interests Prior to Monteith’s Appointment to Head an ‘Independent’ Inquiry Into the Never Ending Eagle Farm Nude Track Debacle


We f*cked around and f*cked around and now we are four months behind the timetable set by Dale Monteith to get the track going again and are no hope of making up the ground, so we’ve given up and decided to watch movies on the big screen instead.

What’s that? Phar Lap, Sea Biscuit, War Horse, Gallipoli, The Black Stallion, The Cup? What are those movies about? Horses? Nah bugger that. We’ve got Santa!


We talked to pretty much the same bunch of bozos who stuffed the farm up the first two times and we decided it was too hot to think about grass so we all went up to the Directors Room and got pissed on sponsor contra instead.

Because we were busy representing the Club at race meetings all over the globe including Hong Kong, Singapore and Tokyo – anywhere Nifty has a slice of a horse pretty much – he did Sweet Fanny Adams about fixing the track and now we couldn’t get it right if we tried so we’ve adopted the Bart Simpson approach (above), and the experts (pictured below) all agree.


ET is one of those genius’s who is so off the planet smart that the common man from Geebung like me can’t keep up with him.

I can’t work out how not having a race track and not holding races on the Eagle Farm course is the right one for owners, trainers, jockeys, stable staff, bookmakers, bar staff, employees of the club, punters, the racing industry as a whole and the lady who sells race books out of the little wooden box, but that’s because I’m not a doctor.

Come to think of it Eliot Forbes isn’t either. That must be why he describes not buying a single grain of sand, pebble of gravel, blade of grass, bag of fertiliser or any other expensive damn thing a race course needs as ‘best practice.

The obvious question of course is where exactly doing absolutely nothing when you have your main racetrack sitting alone, idle and damaged is regarded as best practice? Yemen? The Shetland Isles? Latvia? St Kitt’s?

I’m confused – ET is just so smart. That’s why he got Whimpey Dave to hire three of the titty girls from his soft porn live show stable to old a hose for an hour and drench the home straight until it turned to mud, and then got all experts to jump in and slide around and extensively test the sand.

A couple of the office staff mistook the mud for hay four hours into the sponsors contra grog at the Christmas Party and decided to go for a private nude roll in it. These sexperts reported back to the group that the quality of the cushioning was world class and second to none, although given that it sort of sounded like “thisshhh artificial beach – burp! excushhh me – that yewse big boss f*ckers built ish da bomb to root on”, the jury is out in regard to the sobriety of the proclaimer and the extent of his knowledge of the many qualities and endearing characteristics of wet sand.


Nifty’s provided certainty.

The certainty that he will go down in history as the man who blew the Eagle Farm track Sky Heights and like all the kings horses and all the kings men couldn’t put Farmy back together again.

The certainty that no horses will grace the surface (oops, I almost said grass) until Santa comes again next year.

The certainty that the Project Control Group – which still seems to have a lot of familiar names on its books – are merely clowns in charge of a wider circus, and that they will f*ck the track up yet again, this time maybe for good.


Dale Monteith’s been given an ongoing and no doubt highly lucrative consultancy or project gig and is doing very nicely thank you very much.

No wonder he went so soft on the clowns at RQ and the BRC who f*cked the track up: the bastards are now his bosses and paymasters!

Talk about a conflict of f*cking interest!

Why was Monteith employed as a grass specialist anyway? His academic qualifications consist solely of a business degree – if he finished it, that is; it’s not clear – and he has no formal or professional qualifications in turf, grass, construction, engineering or horticulture whatsoever or at all.


Here’s the even bigger burning question, and it comes in three parts.

(1) Why did the BRC at no stage prior to the appointment of Dale Monteith to the role of ‘independent’ reviewer of the failed track declare that it intended to enter into contracts with Monteith to perform work for the club that extends well beyond his original remit?

(2) Was this contract for Monteith’s post-review work for the BRC ever advertised or tendered? If so, when and where? If not, why not?

(3) Was the original contract for the well paid track review consultancy ever advertised or tendered? If so, when and where? If not, why not?

(4) What selection process was used to select Dale Monteith as the successful bidder? Who made the decision, and under what authority? Was the recommendation to engage Monteith put before the BRC board for ratificaton? If yes, when? If no, why not?

(5)  We know that Dale Monteith is extremely competent, and that between August and November 2014 he was contracted to Tasmanian Racing to head that State’s Racing Industry Review and chair the working group that powered the review.

But why were Queensland racing industry folk and taxpayers not told that Monteith and Forbes formed a social friendship during this time, and remain friendly outside of work?

(6) Do either Forbes or Monteith realise that the failure to publicly declare the pair’s relationship casts huge grey questions over the veracity of the latter’s report into the Eagle Farm track debacle, in particular in relation to the culpability of RQ and/or Monteith’s mate Eliot Forbes for the massive failures of leadership, planning and execution that rendered the track totally rooted 9 months ago and made the State’s industry the laughing stock of Australian racing?

(7) Why was Dale Monteith’s long professional and personal relationship with Mary Bell during their time together in Victorian Racing not disclosed prior to him being awarded the lucrative consultancy role, and why was his social friendship with both Mary Bell and her husband the BRC Chairman not also registered and revealed?

(8) Does either Bell or Monteith appreciate how bad a look this is, and understand the immediately growing doubts about how independent his report into Eagle Farm’s problems really was particularly given that, as was the case with Forbes, Nifty Nev and his hand maiden Whimpey Dave escaped any criticism whatsoever by Monteith in his report?

The Brisbane Racing Club Finally Come Clean on Eagle Farm – It’s Official – There Will Be No Winter Carnival at Headquarters This Year – But We Told You That 10 Weeks Ago Didn’t We Sportsfans?

The great Makybe Diva etched her name in racing folklore and entered the Hall of Fame by arrogantly winning three consecutive Melbourne Cups.

The arrogant and incompetent BRC Chairman Nifty Neville bell has swept into the Annals of Racing Infamy by f*cking up three consecutive track reconstructions or restorations, which when you have more than $14 million at your disposal all up across the hatrick is a herculean effort of the type we will never again see in our lifetimes sportsfans.

It is an absolutely outstanding achievement by Nifty Nev, a Group 1 exhibition in how if you believe enough in yourself and your personal greatness you can harness your mind and train it to channel great figures in history such as the fella in the dried horse meat jerky specialty store in outer Mongolia who was on holiday the week that Genghis Khan swept  through the town and razed it to the ground, killing the entire population except the jerky man who was representing the Outer and Western Mongolia Big Fat Jerky Jumps Racing Club at the Asia Racing Conference held in upper Tibet.

Nifty’s amazing array of wrecking ball talents doesn’t stop at knocking things down though; just like old King Midas he can turn them to stone too, and bronze statues of horses that are harder to find than the Terracotta Warriors, and little grains of sand in which no grass can grow,.

To be fair the last one is mere speculation, because you would have to actually roll out some turf and water on a track before you could be absolutely sure of its resistance to sand, and the only grass we’ve seen at Eagle Farm this summer is the photo-shopped stuff in the BRC’s press release running up the white flag and conceding Archie was right this afternoon, and the phat buds that Whimpey Dawg left in the glove box of the missing Gator.

(By the way has anyone seen that Gator? It’s not easy to miss. Big yellow thing, looks like an Ekka Speeway sprint car)

Yes sportfans, Nifty’ thrown in the towel, and now all the bullsh*t and bluster and wildly imagined grandiose statements that are nothing but goddamn bloody lies spread my a malcontented make-it-up-as-you-go nobody from Geebung have all of a sudden become the gawd-dang gospel truth, even though I wish like hell that it wasn’t.

It’s official.

The Winter Carnival’s off at Eagle Farm next year. There’ll be no 2018 Straddy run over Ascot’s once-famous 1400 metre turf, and no Derby over the 2400 meters either. Perhaps they might shift the Group races to Gympie; it would be great for country racing, and they could schedule the Stradbroke to start straight after the Boulia to Benowa and Back Via Betoota Queensland-Afghanistan Camel Drivers Cockrag Cup.

Image result for afghan camel drivers

Nifty’s coughed after we outed him in a series of pieces culminating in The Santa Clause saga earlier this week, and after months of statesman like denials and rolled eyes every time the name Butterfly was mentioned the Chairman has finally admitted that the Farm’s totally fucked, and that it ain’t getting fixed anytime soon.

He had to, we left him no choice, and the movie nights gave him up. When you elect to watch an atrocious movie like Elf under the stars on the Southern Hemisphere’s biggest screen in preference to organising a night (or even day) shift to work on rebuilding the course proper then not even Peter Foster at his con man finest could bedazzle you with enough rainbow colored smoke and shimmering mirrors to keep you believing the utterly deceitful chain of ‘we’ll be back in winter’ lies spun by the BRC.

It’s hard to argue with Nifty’s decision that 20 year old bad American Christmas movies should come first at Eagle Farm isn’t it? After all what sort of head up their arse race club administrators would put having a track to race on before free frozen fantas and couples only picnic hampers?

Are they morons or something?

Next they’ll be telling us that Santa’s real, or that Dave Whimpey’s CV is not crook, or that Nev loves Brisbane racing so much that it hurts him to have to take up the offers of all-expenses paid (by someone else) junkets to watch other people’s big races live abroad in Asia on the same day that Vegas’s second biggest racing promotion of the year is taking place, or that upside down horse shoes are real bad luck.

Why, they might even try to tell you that the core business of any racing club is racing.

Image result for eagle farm racing

Bah humbug!

The core business of the BRC is making its Directors rich, that’s what the core business of the club is. After all you’re not going to get rich running races that might upset the circadian rhythms of the Mirvac workers building your penthouse apartment that the ‘joint venture partner’ – bookies used to call them the skinners – so kindly allowed you to purchase on the minimum deposit and a deferred interest and principal repayments loan the builder advanced you while you are waiting for the Phantom Stud to sell.

If we start building track and laying down rolls of turf where do you expect the trucks carting Nifty’s gold taps and marble dunny seats for the penthouse going to drive you bloody ingrates? On the paddock lawn?

No way Koiro Corrie May.

They’ll wreck the bloody grass!

Its Official – Eagle Farm is F*cked For the Winter Carnival – Archie’s a Fool and a Prophet of Doom Is He Boys? – It Ain’t This Little Black Duck That’s the Fool, Don’t You Worry About That


This absolute crock of craven crap spouted by the alien clown and desert vet Not-Doctor Eliot Forbes is one of the greatest displays of self-flagellation seen on a BrisVegas race track since Happy Jack decided in his cups to water the roses down at the fence separating the great unwashed from the beautiful people and copped a 4 week ban from the track and a gobful of vitriol from the upright hypocrites who ran the show back in the days when Happy used to lead the Diehards out in A-Grade at Lang Park.

He was an absolute pain in the arse old Happy Jack, but I’d always sling him a few beers and a cab fare home if I had a bit of scratch after the last, partly because he was a character and identity, but predominantly because that’s just what punters do. We all know that there but for the grace of god goes us wearing Happy’s sombrero, and that for men of racing and wagers the slippery slide from the penthouse to the sh*thouse or worse takes but the blink of an eye, a bad ride and a bobbed head.

ET almost certainly doesn’t even know who Happy Jack was, and Dave Whimpey wouldn’t let him into the course on sight, and Nifty Nev the networking chairman of the people never actually leaves the members other than to walk to and from his car and couldn’t have found a paddock public bar if he wanted to, and he doesn’t.

The dirty great unwashed out there are no doubt cursing and sculling in a fog of airborne plague virus cells bursting out from their soot-blocked pores, and Nifty doesn’t want any bloody part of it.

Most importantly though of course the general public don’t vote, so therefore in the Chairman’s view the mugs who have just spent 15 bucks to pass through the turnstiles -and who will punt and purchase plenty throughout the day – can go and get f*cked, and if they don’t like wading through three inch deep overflowed piss so they themselves can piss into 80-year-old cracked porcelain troughs that haven’t been upgraded or repaired since the day they were installed well the Hamilton Hotel’s just down the bloody road and perhaps they might be better placed taking their whining arses down there instead of just continually asking for more, more, more.

Bloody hell if you encourage that sort of crap and give the peasants a single inch the pricks will be wanting to take an extra mile, and before you know it the next thing will be that the bastards will want the race track to have a course proper too, and then they’ll want grass on it and we will have to pay people to water it and on and on and on and it will never end.

It’s a lot cheaper and a lot less hassle to just to forget about racing altogether and just whack on a good Christmas movie.

You seen that one about the Grinch Nifty? Some people reckon he looks like you. Me personally? I think that bloke’s far better looking.

Pass the remote will you son?


The Race Fixers Rise From the Grave at Redcliffe – How Embarrassment


The excerpts at the top and bottom are taken from the printed and published race guide in yesterdays Courier Mail of 14 December 2017.

You know, the same paper that in the past fortnight have prominently published a number of articles about match-fixing in harness racing, the details of which they have in the main pinched from this site, including the fact that premiership winning driver Shane Graham and once-promising young concessional (apprentice) reinsman Len Cain were last week suspended from the sport indefinitely pending resolution of the criminal charges that both are facing.

The same Shane Graham that the Courier-Mail told punters was driving Dapper Bessie in Race 5 last night at Redcliffe.

And the same Len Cain that the paper’s experts said would be sitting behind Just Call Me Goose last night.


I’ll call you goose alright Courier-Mail man, and I’ll call whoever is responsible for this appalling stuff up a honker too.

How embarrassment.

The Hornet’s Sting – Don’t Believe All the Bullshit and Hoopla – Jeff Horne’s Career Was Saved By the Promoter Bob Arum and a Bunch of Crooked Officials – The Fix Was In


This is the official scorecard for the Jeff Horne – Garry Corcoran bout uttered last night by the sanctioning body, the World Boxing Organisation.

It is a fraud.

This is not the real card, and the numbers written upon them are not the real scores.

The fix is in.

I was there at the fight, two rows back from ringside with my lifelong mate and fellow boxing nut the Eagle and and my godson (his son) Jacko.

The Eagle and I have been following boxing so long that when the totally irrelevant and copyright breaching historical WBC and WBA footage of great old fights came up we could remember exactly where we watched them and how we got there.

Ali Frazier was after Mass, and our parents – who were friends despite the difference in age – were watching it on Channel 9 with a group from church, athough to be fair in those pre-main event days it could have been a replay played on Wide World of Sports, the great unknown magnet of a TV show that inspired kids to jump out of bed at the crack of dawn and shake their parents awake shouting “Hurry Mum! Hurry Dad! We have to get to 7am Mass! God’s Waiting”. (WWOS used to kick off at 10am).

We were at the Balmoral Tavern – which strangely is actually in Bulimba – for the Helicopter Man Holyfield fight; and at the Alderley Arms with the Irish Quartermaster for the quick Tyson KO.

Sugar Ray we savored the first time around at the Embassy Pub (I was underage, but had been drinking beer there daily since the age of fourteen, so it wasn’t a problem), and second time around down at Jackie’s Elizabeth Street TAB opposite the Wintergarden.

We watched Hearns – Hagler there too, and it stands proudly alongside Sugar Ray’s comeback win against Marvelous Marvin after 3 years in the paddock as the greatest fight I’ve ever seen in my life, and if you’ve never had the privilege of seeing how two great fighters can throw the fridge, the kitchen sink and every ounce of guts and heart and will at each other in 8 non-stop minutes of fistic frenzy that stirs the soul I strongly recommend that you do so now.

I’m not telling you any of this to boast, or to show how bloody old I am, but rather so you can understand that when it comes to appraisal of fights and the fighting game neither my old mate Eagle nor I are mugs.

We scored the fight from the start, as we’ve been doing together while watching bouts since we were babes in the woods – we bet on it of course, 20 bucks to whoever gets closest to the average of the official judge’s score – and at the end of the tenth there was only a bees dick between our cards, with him having it 6-4 Horne and me figuring 5 each, a judgement backed up by young Jacko, a pretty fair judge of punchers for an 18-year-old lad who also had a split tally on his card.

We weren’t alone.

Australia’s foremost boxing journalist Grantlee Kieza, whose involvement in the game stretches back to the days of Ali, only had a Tally Ho paper between Corcoran and Horne entering the 11th, as did his News Ltd colleague Dave.


So how the f*ck could one official have scored it ten rounds to zip in Horne’s favor, and the other pair have it 9-1 the same way?

Horne won Round 1 comfortably, and may or may not have prevailed in Round 2 as well, but he most certainly did not win rounds 3-6, no way on God’s good earth. So how the hell did the judges have it so wildly wrong?

Simple answer?

They didn’t.

The scorecards were doctored up after the event.

The judges are cheats.

The fix was in.



Missing Person Alert – A Delusional Ego Rock Stoked With Glass Pipes Has Stolen a Treacherous Bunger Boy Turned Black and Tan Coonhound’s Mind – But If You Find This Dog Please Don’t Bring Him Back – It Might Be Dangerous to the Boarding House Scumbag Dealer Boys Blowme Hard Bubba’s Health

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This odd looking character pictured above and below is a person sectioned under the Mental Health Act.

He is prone to making bizarre claims against his caregivers and those who due to a deeply ingrained sense of compassion commonly called Catholic Guilt continue – or continued – to try and help him avoid his waiting ringside chair in the gutter marked ‘Craig Butler’, despite the protestations of their wives and friends that the c*nt is nothing but a garden variety slug and the lowest form of mangy copper’s dog.


Is a fox a cat or a dog or both sport? You’d know.

“It’s the drugs” I tell them, but it’s not true.

I only realised that the other day.

What’s really at fault is a bizarrely over-sized ego and a total void of any moral or ethical understanding or adherence to the Geebung Code, which can be a dangerous thing when for a fella who’s run out of friends and yet still elects to make death threats against his once long-time helper, and threats of violence against that writers family.

Some people do have friends you see. Lots of them, from all walks of life, and he has them because he is solid and doesn’t talk out of school even though he writes, and folk who know about such things are 100% confident that he, a cleanskin, would learn to like porridge and suffer interminable boredom forever rather than do the wrong thing by another human being and utter their name in places where no man or woman’s name should ever be uttered.

Places like police stations, where weak-gutted yellow-belly black snakes slither when they suddenly realise that they are just low-life losers  and need someone else to blame.

Does’t everybody love the neighbour who rings the council to report that you have left the hose on outside watering hours, and that they know its true because they have just been swimming in your pool?

Or the faux friend like Aaron Sherrit who copped six pieces of silver to play the role of police informant on his mates Dan, Joe and Ned and in doing so led them straight to an early grave.

What was that Ned said to Redmond Barry?

“I’ll see you there where I go?”

Aaron Sherrit got their first.

Joe Byrne was a bloody good shot, and a frugal environmentalist type too because he nailed the rat in one, while the witness protection program coppers in Sherrit’s house were searching for a mouse under the bed.

My old man always told me that alcohol is never an excuse.

“It doesn’t change people” he said. “It merely brings out to the surface what they really thing and feel and do and are inside”.

How right he truly was, and drugs are exactly the same. They are the weak man’s excuse, the gutless man’s fake strength, and the dog’s eternal alibi.

It’s all a lie.

You’re either a good bloke or you’re not, and that’s just life.

But you don’t have to be a dog, and if you choose to be you’re nothing more than a simple piece of lowlife lying sh*t.


Some people’s priorities change as they grow older and belatedly mature; some other people just don’t pay their kid’s maintenance

If Craig Butler contacts or approaches you attempting to sell you a yarn about how Archie runs around rooting all these other birds who aren’t his wife, can you ask him to send you some photos as proof. I was supposed to take them for Maggie but the battery ran flat, and she’s been shitty at me ever since and claims that I’m just holding out.

Or if the deranged drug addict turns up at your work with a folder full of nothing that he claims is a combination dirt file/atom bomb that will explode Archie’s credibility forever, as you are dialling Triple 0 – ask for an ambulance, but tell the operator that you don’t know what drug he’s been taking or not taking and request they bring a police officer just in case – ask him to show you what’s in the file.

Then ask him what 347 form guides dating back to about the turn of the century have to do with Archie and dirt, and step back slowly as he embarks on an unbridled rant about how your humble correspondent drowned Harold Holt and shot Kennedy and nobbled Big Philou and secretly pulled off the Fine Cotton rort while dressed in a latex suit designed by Baz Luhrman’s missus that made him look for all the world like Hayden Haitana.

With a bit of luck the boys hauling the elephant tranquiliser and the strait jackets will get there before he starts screaming about Lebanese Gangsters and how he has just phoned John Ibrahim and how he worked in Kings Cross in 1980 when he was really spinning discs in some sh*t pub in Townsville after the drugs first kicked in and f*cked his once promising bleached blonde nightclub owners bufty boy career.

If he winds up his Ice inspired rant before the good officers arrive and begins to tell you that he’s tougher than Ali even though he shit himself when Archie and a couple of mates dropped in a while back for a visit and a chat about the Geebung Code, just kick him full pelt in the balls.

The c*nt’s a dog.

He f*cking deserves it.


Ouch fella you must really have pissed somebody off by crossing a line. But did you really go knocking on Clip Clop’s door with your file full of form guides looking like that? And did one of Queensland’s richest men really spend half an hour talking to you and feeding you free coffee in that state? Gee Clip Clop must really be scraping the barrel in his attempt to find sh*t to discredit Archie, mustn’t he? Poor bastard’s wasting his time, but gee, I wonder what he is so worried about?


Exploding the Myth of the Racing State of Origin Series – We Made an Additional $427.59 on Sunday Out of the Series Before Deducting a Cent of Expenses – The Trophy Actually Cost More Than the Gross Profit – Now That’s a Sensationally Successful Promotion Isn’t It Sportsfans?


The State of Origin Jockey Series is the invention of morons who know as much about racing as Boy George knows about pulling chicks.

It is a stupid idea to start with that has had more PR dough thrown at it than Bradman hit sixes, and has been spun harder than a Shane Warne tweaker, but it was a dog of a concept from the very moment it was conceived and despite the best efforts of bunch of f*cking big shot faux experts in the Racing Queensland bunker who refuse to admit that they were wrong a dog it was and a dog it remains.

The numbers and the facts simply don’t lie.

After two years of f*ck ups dishonestly described as teething issues, this year racing Queensland chucked everything bar the kitchen sink and the Westinghouse freezer at the Summer State of Origin series, and spared no expense.

RQ flew jockeys first class from all over Australia, New Zealand and South-East Asia, and put ’em up in flash digs and fed and watered and ferried them around all over the bloody show. They even gifted the riders juicy wads of five figures worth of cash so that the clowns in charge of the control body circus could (mistakenly) claim that they had the best in the business taking their place in the saddles.

Then with the cooperation of UBET the self-serving marketing non-gurus managed to prime the First Four betting pool pumps by adding a minimum of $2 500 in jackpot pools to every race at Caloundra on Sunday in a cynical attempt to manipulate their wildly imagined and ill-conceived self-fulfilling prophecies of success into becoming reality.

They failed.

I’ve done the numbers by comparing the UBET turnover at last Sunday’s third leg of the State of Origin series held across the card at Corbould Park with the figures from the exact same Sunday meeting sans State of Origin hoops that the Sunshine Coast club conducted just a year before, and let me tell you they ain’t good, they ain’t good at all.

They could and would have been a lot worse had the desperate dolts from RQ not managed to have the foresight to pump up those First 4 pools though, because the rake and take on that specific exotic bet type spiked by about $100 000 on last year’s figures, and if that hadn’t happened I strongly suspect that a whole bunch of Deagon-based fold would have been out hunting for new jobs on Monday morning, and if the newly minted jobseekers had quoted this hyper-expensive dingbatted dough down the dunny and flush promotional failure on their CV’s I very much doubt that they would have been having a whole lot of new job finding luck either.

Do you know exactly how much extra Racing Queenland (and by association the racing industry) made year on end by holding the final day of the series at the Sunny Coast this year sportsfans?

Before tax, wages, costs, marketing advertising and media and PR spin, and before appearance fees for jockeys and presenters were paid?

Are you sitting down?


Four hundred and twenty-seven dollars and fifty-nine cents.

Chump change. Not even a single monkey.

Do you know how much the trophy presented to the winning jockey cost to have designed, hand crafted and constructed?

About 3 grand, which means that the brilliant genius designed-balls up cost racing two and a half tons before the horses had even reached the barrier for the first, and it would have been a hell of a lot closer to $102 500 if the hoping for a bloody series of miracles First Four gambits hadn’t worked.


The numbers don’t lie sportsfans.

Here they are.

The 2017 figures are in bold, the 2016 figures are in standard print.

Numbers in brackets mean that the total 2016 betting pool was higher, numbers not in brackets mean that the total 2017 betting pool was higher.


136 051 – 153 577 = (17 526)


50 631 – 62 613 = (11 982)


33 631 – 36 797 = (3 166)


14 523 – 19 606 = (5 083)


7 019 – 8 946 = (1 927)


114 066 – 117 409 = (3 343)


146 661 – 41 898 = 104 763


54 994 – 50 850 = 4 144


8706 – 15 478 = (6 772)


6 989 – 10 052 = (3 063)


3 951 – 3 708 = 243


2017 – $577 222

2016 – $520 934


$56 288


$36 288


$6 288





Why is Widespread Six Figure Fraud in Harness Racing Being Treated as a Lesser Crime Than the Maybe Manslaughter of a Single Little Pink Pig? – Redemption Only Happens When You Give Good People a Fair Dinkum Go and a Second Chance

In the year 2015 the ABC Four Corners program broadcast secretly – and almost certainly illegally – recorded footage of a small group of greyhound industry participants present at veteran trainer Tom Noble’s training track at Churchable, south-west of Brisbane while a small number of greyhounds were trial racing chasing a lure with a small, live pig tied to it.

There was widespread and totally understandable community outrage about the broadcast images, and within days the issue of animal cruelty in the industry became a firestorm that triggered the Queensland Government’s initiation of an inquiry into the greyhound industry that many – this author included – believe was cynically used as a smokescreen to disguise the implementation of a never before announced or released restructure of the racing industry under the control of a beefed up Racing Queensland principal control body.

In the wash up the greyhound industry, whose representatives had a figurative gun at their heads, were forced to accept the abolition of the long-standing Queensland Greyhound Breeders Incentive Scheme, and agree to the not-negotiable RQ demands for short and medium term targets to reduce the size of the greyhound stock in the state by  introducing closely regulated maximum breeding numbers of dogs.

The industry was wobbling at the knees and looked for all money as if its lights were about to be turned out under the rain of blows from all quarters, but thanks to a combination of excellent grassroots organising; superb, well-informed leadership by the Qld Greyound Breeders Owners and Trainers Association, and the determination of the vast majority of good, honest, animal loving participants in the industry the sport survived and would today be prospering if only it were given a fair go.

Fast forward to December 2017, and as of today 10 harness racing identities, including a number of hiugh profile current and former award and premiership winning drivers and trainers – one of them the State’s leading driver – have been arrested and bailed on criminal charges of match fixing and/or money laundering, and it is the tiny, incestuous harness racing industry that has now fallen into deep disarray.

The sport/industry has had a swathe cut right down it’s middle by the excellent detective work of the QPS Racing Squad and QRIC, and with further high-profile arrests seemingly inevitable the pressure is mounting on the newly elected State Government to constitute a ‘live baiting’ style widespread inquiry into corrupt practices, procedures, networks of influence and control and institutionalised corruption across the length, breadth and width of the harness racing code.

Things is crook in trot land Tallarook, and it’s no overstatement to say that just as happened in the live baiting affair the actions of a criminal few have imperiled the future of the whole harness racing industry and left it facing near-extinction if the arrests keep coming and nothing is done.

Now whether defrauding punters of quite literally hundreds of thousands of dollars, and quite likely millions, is a more or less serious offence than tying a live piglet to a lure and letting dogs chase, catch and perhaps even kill the pig is a matter of subjective personal opinion\, and is not one that I have any desire to engage in emotive debate about.

I can say with absolute confidence though that I for one do not regard the rumored death of a single animal whose brothers and sisters are slaughtered in their tens of thousands each day in abattoirs by having a steel bolt fired into their heads or a halal knife slit across their throats as any more or less important on the criminal scale of gravity than a wholesale organised criminal cartel defrauding tens, maybe hundreds, of thousands of hard working Australians of the large sums of money that they had collectively invested oblivious to the clear fact that many of these races were rigged.

A crime’s a crime’s a crime in my book, and both codes are plagued by criminals.

Given this self-evident truth, why is it then that while the Greyhound Breeding Scheme was shut off without notice in a snap decision that ruined folk’s reputations, careers, finance, and in some thankfully rare cases lives, while the now demonstrably diabolically crooked harness racing industry continues to receive more than a million dollars a year in breeding subsidies decided and distributed by the principal control body Racing Queensland?

Whatever happened to equity? Why is the greyhound industry being treated so differently than the harness code, even though they both presently find themselves swimming in the same viscous, turgid, polluted swamp draining poison into our rivers and sweeping it out to the sea?

Why is it exactly that greyhound trainers who have never had any knowledge of or involvement with the heartless few convicted of reprehensible animal abuse offences are required to sign statutory declarations affirming that they have not, are not, and will not be involved in live baiting their dogs.

Yet participants in the much smaller and far more insular world of the Queensland harness racing industry are being asked to sign absolutely diddly squat to swear or affirm that they were not, have not, are not, and never will be involved in the serious criminal behavior that landed so many of their colleagues with a ‘warned off for life’ letter delivered to their door by registered courier or post?

What is the actual reason for this blatantly different treatment of the two groups of law breakers home code sportsfans?

Is it the political donation largesse of certain wealthy figures in the harness racing industry? Was it part of a bigger picture plan to push the greyhound sport to the fringes and choke it down under the weight of beefed up animal welfare laws while continuing to allow Tom, Dick, Harry and anyone else rort trot races until the cows come home?

Here’s another pertinent question.


Will Racing Queensland reduce harness racing prize money proportionate to the control body or QRICs reduction in greyhound prize money just a couple of years ago, ostensibly to recoup the costs involved in that case of investigating live baiting, and in the case of harness to recover the huge costs of the surveillance and CCC operations required to root the race fixers out, and then later to fund their inevitable prosecutions?

Racing Queensland can’t have it both ways, and underpinning our great democracy is one of the economic system’ fundamental tenets , Equal Justice For All, Applied Without Fear or Favor by the uniformed yet semi-independent guardians of the old and quaint, but not quite yet obsolete belief in the fair go and roughly even shake of the Rosella bottle for and by all.

I’m raising these issues just like I do have through the many exclusive stories published here that n recent days have attracted upwards of 5 000 punters and maybe even ten thousand to read this website daily.

Not because I’m paid to (I’m not, this site is like a self-funded miniature of the ABC, and given my personal Jesus-inspired disdain for wealth and possessions, and the nature of the material I cover its always likely to remain the same); or because I’m pushing any particular barrow because I’m in most respects a nihilist, and also because I have an inkling that barrow pushing never gets a bloke very far before he’s squashed under weight of the cart’s contents or trips on a boardwalk and tumbles into the deep black sea to be devoured by sharks.

There are enough of those sharp toothed assassins of the sea to cause me to avoid them and all their ilk, don’t you worry about that, and I no more need them than I do a hot shot in the bot by Tony Abbott’s knot.

That simply proves that I have a modicum of common sense I reckon.

But where’s the proof that Racing Queensland share my logic and reasoning?

Nowhereville, Nowhere. That’s where.

In the meantime though – and maybe forever more until the head honchos of racing grow some cojones and act to even things up – the sport of Cleopatra is copping a fair dinkum kicking, while the battlers code run by some of Queensland’s richest men just keep on doing what they are doing and we keep knocking them down.

One law for you, one law for all.

Jesus died on a cross so that sinners might find it inside themselves to change, and go on to lead wholesome, healthy and productive lives.

The greyhound industry has seen the way and the light itself, and has changed; but harness racing remains still trapped on its turgid, calamitously crooked path.

Something’s gotta give.

We gotta make the sun shine again sportsfans.

Lets do it.

Are Racing Queensland Taking Race Fans For Fools? – Or Is the Joker the Only Fool?


This statement appears on the Racing Queensland website.

It is not, and can not, be true.

The company UBET – a subsidiary of the Tasmanian parent company the Tatts Group -was not even formed until 1 July 1999, and that is not 55 years ago.

And UBET does not ‘support’ the Queensland Racing Industry, quite to the contrary, Queensland Racing supports UBET by granting it a long-term monopoly bricks and mortar wagering licence, and by supplying the company with the racing product that enables it to record massive annual profits.


As I said, UBET didn’t even exist until 1999 and that is because it was not until that particular year that a short-sited, reckless to the point of insanity, and quite probably bribed ALP Ministerial Caucus made the dumb, dumb and dumber decision to privatise the long publicly owned Queensland TAB and effectively transfer an ongoing lifelong licence to print money out of public ownership and into the greedy paws of the corporate wagering industry.

So don’t believe the 55 year lie that UBET so cravenly love to spread, and don’t believe UBET’s whinging and moaning about the evils of unfair competition from the corporate bookmakers either.

UBET are a corporate bookmaker!

Its what they are and what they do, and anything they tell you otherwise is just a low-down loathsome lie.

Trust is built on a bedrock of truth UBET and Racing Queensland.

Why don’t you both try to start telling it?

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